


Slow Chemistry

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: As such a noncon warning may be appropriate, Asexual Molly, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual/Asexual fic, F/M, Gen, Panromantic Sherlock, Pridelolly, The deleted scene regarding Magnussen appears in this fic, biromantic Molly, depending on one's interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John, as Sherlock tells Lestrade, "not really in the picture any more", Sherlock is left to contemplate the reality that even if he had wanted anything greater than friendship with him, it is no longer a possibility. Molly Hooper has been searching for someone who wants her just as she is-- not as a DIY project or a means to get to someone else.<br/>Often, in chemistry, reactants are artificially manipulated --heated, stirred agitated--to force reactions. While rapid, they can consume excess energy and damage the environment. Slow Chemistry simply combines the right ingredients, and waits. It is a natural, unforced process which is ultimately less destructive, though powerful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts).



> I am publishing the first section of this...where their relationship begins. I may continue it later with a deeper exploration of events in canon through this lens.

It was painful to admit, for many reasons, but Mycroft was right. John had moved on. Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure how much of it was actively his fault and how much purely situational. Perhaps it didn't matter at this point.

On the list of possible reasons why he might have felt-- not attracted as such, maybe the better word would be drawn? Yes, on the list of possible reasons why he might have felt drawn to someone, their anatomical structure would have been on the very bottom. Apparently, John consistently thought otherwise. He required female companionship. It should have come as no surprise that he had finally found what he had been searching for during the years Sherlock had been-- away. 

_It is what he has always done. Why should I still be disappointed?_

There had been a few times, before Mary, when he had considered bringing the matter up directly. Sherlock had even gone so far as to actually write a letter-- to have given John ample time to digest it. To consider the possibility. 

It had been overly long, and explained far more than he had originally intended. It rambled on about identity and how a person seldom fits neatly into one of the many boxes society has deemed it necessary to create. Even if one should _seem_ to fit, it is invariably inaccurate-- since far too much credence is placed on one's actions rather than one's thoughts and feelings. The failings of the Kinsey Scale. The origins of self-definition, shifting from mere sexual acts to more complex sexual identities. How you can love someone's essence, in such a way that the packaging in which it comes is completely irrelevant. 

He had believed every word with all his heart, but it still sounded utterly ridiculous. Long ago, in a moment tinged with both clarity and despair, Sherlock had ripped it up in disgust.

He told himself he was better off without the complication such attachments would present. Nothing about him was typical, but John-- John was hopelessly restricted by convention... tied to other people’s idiotic limits, rules, boundaries, definitions. Dull. Of course John's answer would always be no; any attempt to suggest otherwise would simply embarrass the both of them.

Then, of course-- the jump. 

Then Mary. 

If the possibility had ever truly existed, the moment for it had passed. 

And was a _friendship_ so entirely different from what he wanted, anyway? It wasn't about sexual attraction; it was about how it felt to be finally sharing those beautiful, perfect moments doing something he truly loved with someone who understood him. From John's point of view-- perhaps there was no discernible difference. Perhaps John would confidently file such things under 'friendship'. But Sherlock, in spite of his lack of adequate comparison, saw it as something far greater. And, yes, he wanted that for himself alone. Not out of any artificially imposed morality, but out of pure selfishness.

He felt himself sinking into hostility... small-minded people made him miserable. Almost as miserable as the realization that he most certainly wasn't as close to John as he had initially thought. There seemed to be far too much John could never understand. And it was just as well. John was still remarkably angry with him at the moment-- refusing to see he made the best choice possible in what was an impossible situation. John didn't even trust him _that_ much-- to have made the decision with the highest probability of a positive outcome, no matter how painful.

****

 

"-- solve crimes?"

"-- have dinner?"

They overlapped their sentences, then both smiled. And Sherlock heard it. A small voice that said, simply, 'Why not'? He didn't stop to analyse it before he found himself replying, "Both, then."

Molly smiled softy and nodded. "Yes. Both. Well... I'll just...I'll see you later, then."

"Yes. Good." He paused before adding, "Thank you."

She blushed and mumbled, "Glad to help."

He politely held the door for her, _since when do you have manners?_ , and once she had left-- collapsed onto the sofa with his head in his hands. Molly had been a true friend. Molly had read his situation clearly and completely when no one else could even see it. Molly had offered to help in any way possible, was dependable beyond all reproach, and had kept his secret for two years. And in return, he was using her to relieve his aching loneliness. She didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve someone like him.

***

When Molly returned in the morning, there was already a client in the room, sitting in John's chair. She pulled up another from the kitchen and placed it beside Sherlock.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

"Should I be making notes?"

"If it makes you feel better."

"It’s just that that’s what John says he does, so if I’m being John ..."

Sherlock turned directly to Molly and smiled. _Please, don't be like John._ "You’re not being John – you’re being yourself."

Molly grinned. 

_Good. Be you, Molly. I'm sorry to have reinforced whatever you may have internalized that there was ever anything more you needed to be. Well-- as The Woman would say-- time to impress a girl..._

The male client looked uncomfortable. "Absolutely no one should have been able to empty that bank account other than myself and Helen."

"Why didn’t you assume it was your wife?"

"Because I’ve always had total faith in her."

"No – it’s because you emptied it. Weight loss, hair dye, Botox; affair." He whipped out a business card and offered it to the seated woman. "Lawyer. Next!" He glanced over at Molly, who looked suitably impressed. _It does seem amazing, doesn't it? Until I show my hand, and then it's all so very simple. More compassion next time, I should think._ Display other aspects of his character. He needed to prove he could be someone worthy of a relationship.

Sherlock offered up his sofa to the next client-- a woman who was clearly bereft-- being sure to give her enough space for optimal comfort. He placed a stool for himself nearby. Kneeling in close, he held her hands gently, patting them as he spoke.

"And your pen pal’s emails just stopped, did they?"

The woman nodded, overwhelmed by emotion.

"And you really thought he was the one, didn’t you? The love of your life?"

She nodded again and sobbed, releasing Sherlock's hands to cover her face.

Sherlock rose and headed toward Molly, quietly murmuring, "Stepfather posing as online boyfriend."

"What?!"

"Breaks it off, breaks her heart. She swears off relationships, stays at home – he still has her wage coming in."

Sherlock tore through case after case, and things had been going very well. _Might be a good time to head off to a crime scene. Molly certainly knows her way around a corpse._

***

He examined the skeleton's clothing first. _Pine? Cedar? No, it's mothballs. Mothballs. The skeleton is a modern creation. Carbon particulates. Fire. Sun-fading of the clothing. This case is already a three and plummeting._

"What is it?" Molly asked.

He stretched the full length of his arm to obtain a signal. He needed to check for recent fire-sales.

"You’re on to something, aren’t you?"

"Mmm, maybe."

'Show off!'

The voice was not Molly, nor was it Lestrade. It was John. Apparently his mind, bored with the three-and-plummeting, was conjuring up a disembodied John, hellbent on harassing him during his date with Molly. Heckling from the sidelines.

'Is it a date?'

 _Of course it is. When two people who like each other go out and have fun. A date._ He mentally ordered John to shut up-- which might have been a bit less internal than it was external-- as Greg turned toward him, and Molly asked for clarification.

"Hmm? Nothing," Sherlock murmured.

Molly seemed hesitant, standing in the background, focused on note-taking. Lestrade gave her a quick glance and then headed over toward Sherlock, speaking in hushed tones. "This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?"

Sherlock decided to pass it off lightly at first. After all, this might not work in the long run. "Just giving it a go."

"Right. So, John?"

"Not really in the picture any more." And it was about time everyone knew it. It would save him from any more awkward conversation.

Rumbling. Dust. 

"Trains?" Molly said, moving closer.

"Trains," he replied. He left out the 'obviously'.

Molly headed over to the corpse and began her analysis. "Male, forty to fifty." She turned back, as she realised she was commandeering Sherlock's usual role, but it seemed so natural, once she decided to wade in. "Ooh, sorry, did you want to be--?"

"Er, no...please. Be my guest." It wasn't long before 'John' returned, still intruding upon his thoughts, asking him if he was jealous. Sherlock shrugged it off; he had no formal training, but could still determine the age of skeletal remains within a certain degree of accuracy. He heard him repeat it, and mentally responded, _I know, John. I'm not jealous-- and neither are you. I get it. Now, shut up!_ Sherlock willed him out of his head. He must have said something aloud again, because Molly clearly noticed this time, though she remained tactfully silent.

"Doesn’t make sense," she said.

"What doesn’t?" Lestrade countered.

"This skeleton – it’s ... it can’t be any more than--"

"Six months old," Molly and Sherlock announced simultaneously.

Sherlock turned the book which had been secreted in a hidden compartment toward her and smirked.

"Wow!" Molly seemed more puzzled than sarcastic.

"Hmm." Sherlock dropped the book dramatically on the table with a thunk, while Lestrade stared at it, incredulous. 

" _How I Did It_ , by Jack the Ripper?!"

"Mm-hm."

"It’s impossible!"

"Welcome to my world," Sherlock replied, as he began repacking his tools.

'Smart arse!' 

Ah, Internal John, criticizing him once more-- this time for displaying an unbecoming amount of ego, followed by a comment on neglecting to put his collar up in the standard attempt to look cool. Sherlock was momentarily confused by the inherent contradiction-- was he meant to try and present a sort of 'above it all' façade or not? He decided to pop his collar anyway. _I know the opposite sex is your area, John, but I don't need your advice...even as counterpoint, a manifestation of my own insecurities, this isn't exactly helpful. Get out!_

***

Molly rang the doorbell, and it played a "mind the gap" voice recording. She smiled broadly, amused. For a moment, her smile made him want to smile, too. Infectious. It reminded him of a study he had read as a child about yawning and the social transference of the behavior. He had felt himself largely immune to the phenomenon. When he mentioned it to Mycroft, claiming he had somehow managed to cultivate the strong will of one not so easily led, his brother countered that it merely indicated his lack of empathy. He and Molly entered the flat together.

He had a girlfriend. It didn't seem possible.

_Your girlfriend follows my cases..._

When Sherlock questioned his veracity, Molly had flashed an expression indicating they were on the same page-- both doubting the claim-- but it was quickly tempered by a reproachful look which strongly suggested that perhaps challenging it aloud had been inappropriate. A self-told lie should be left to stand. But... the man's look of surprise at being doubted, rather than embarrassment at being caught, was confirmation that he had actually spoken the truth. What was the ridiculous man in the ridiculous hat doing with something as-- normal-- as a girlfriend? For a brief moment, he wanted to meet her. What must this exceptional woman be like, to have seen what others clearly hadn't, and to have found companionship with someone such as this? He stayed focussed on the case, however, and asked for details. It was outlined for them, and it was a promising one at that-- a vanishing train car. He was glad to have Molly at his side. 

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James’s Park. So I’m going to need maps – lots of maps, older maps, all the maps."

"Right."

 _Now for the dinner portion of the evening..._ "Fancy some chips?"

"What?"

"I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?"

"No – I helped him put up some shelves." Sherlock grinned, pleased she would now wonder if there was somehow more to him than exonerating or confirming various criminal accusations. True, he was investigating at the time, and the man was just over five-foot-five. It was easy to offer to help as he pushed for information about a regular customer...but...perhaps... leave that detail out? Create the tiniest bit of mystery.

She was taken aback, but giggled all the same. He smiled. It felt good, having this again. Some levity. They headed downstairs.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He turned back to face her.

"What was today about?"

Sherlock hesitated. He had missed something. Misread. What had he misread? "Saying thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything you did for me." _Saw me. You looked and you saw._

"It’s okay. It was my pleasure."

"No, I mean it."

"I don’t mean ‘pleasure.’ I mean, I didn’t mind. I wanted to."

Sherlock leaned in close. "Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible." He drew in a sharp breath as he finally saw it. The engagement ring on her finger. How had he missed it earlier? "But you can’t do this again, can you?"

She smiled, as her voice broke. "I had a lovely day. I’d love to – I just ... um ..."

"Oh, congratulations, by the way." He knew he could make it sound casual. Decades of practice covering emotion, like wallpaper over cracked walls, ensured it.

"He’s not from work," she explained. Sherlock smiled. "We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He’s nice. We-- he’s got a dog-- we... we go to the pub on weekends and he ... I’ve met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family. I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this."

"I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths." Better to stick to the old routine. Being inscrutable, so much better than being vulnerable.

"No?"

"No."

Sherlock moved in close, smiled, poured as much love as he could into the moment. He really did wish her well. His timing was, clearly, uniformly horrible, and he hid the bitter edge well as he wondered if anyone worth spending time with wasn't already engaged. Then, he leaned in, kissed her on the cheek, and walked away.

As the snow came down, he pulled his coat tightly around himself and sighed. 

***  
John's wedding had forced everything else out of his mind, as he tried his best to make a clean break and give him the most elaborate, flawless send-off possible. Just to prove to himself, if no one else, that there was no resentment held towards John or Mary. He was determined to look past any flaws Mary might have, lest he be seen as trying to steer John away from her. As always, he turned to Molly for help.

"Locations of ... murders?"

"Mmmm, pub crawl-- themed."

"Yeah, but why-- why can’t you just do Underground stations?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Lacks the personal touch. We’re going to go for a drink in every street where we ..."

"Every street where you found a corpse!" she overlapped him yet again. Sherlock found it oddly comforting. "Delightful! Where do I come in?"

"Don’t want to get ill. That would ruin it. Spoil the mood."

"You’re a graduate chemist. Can’t you just work it out?"

"I lack the practical experience." _And if you refuse to do this for me, it means you are, in all likelihood, jealous. And that will tell me where we stand with far greater accuracy than your current engagement status._ Sherlock smiled benignly.

"Meaning you think I like a drink."

This was interesting. He had truly meant that _he_ seldom drank _at all._ It deadens the mind, and the feeling was bordering on frightening. Her rising defensiveness was intriguing. "Occasionally."

"That I’m a drunk."

"No. No!" Time to change the subject. This part of the experiment was far less conclusive than he had hoped. Perhaps he should be more direct?

"You look ... well."

"I am."

"How’s--" Sherlock consciously moved his eyes to the corners, as if trying to retrieve long forgotten information, when, in fact, he most certainly knew her fiancé's name. "-- Tom?"

"Not a sociopath." _Ah._

"Still? Good."

Molly smiled before disclosing, "And we’re having quite a lot of sex."

The announcement was puzzling. She was going out of her way to let him know she was having all her needs satisfactorily met by Tom-- which would, of course, imply she still had feelings for him after all. _Oh, but dear Molly, if that is what you want, you can surely be grateful it isn't me you are with._

He could do sex. Everything certainly functioned properly. And while it wasn't a goal, it wasn't anything he was averse to, as such. It just never quite made sense. To be clear, it made a great deal of biological sense, but it was much more something one does, or is expected to do, rather than something he ever _wanted_ to do. Was he a virgin? Well, that depended on one's definition of virginity, didn't it? By the more _conventional_ expectations, yes. It just all felt a bit foreign and purposeless. But it wouldn't be purposeless to someone else. For them, it would be essential-- to feel desired-- and.. and that was fine. An easy compromise. It wasn't as if he would be faking desire either, not entirely. It was simply a different type of desire. 

He often wondered if Mycroft understood this in the same way he did. This sense of how good it really felt, to not be alone. They had almost broached the subject, playing around with that stupid hat. He often thought Mycroft secretly indulged the physical. It would make sense if he had a lover, several in fact, to meet his corporeal needs. Goldfish could do that as a simple exchange. Sex was everywhere. Companionship wasn't. Of course, as much as he had tried to be like his brother, the two of them were quite simply opposites in that way... and he felt, as usual, that Mycroft's was the more socially acceptable path. He hated him for that.

But... the thought of having 'quite a lot of sex' was... he struggled for the right response, caught by the complete realization that this would likely not work for either of them after all. He ended up simply saying "Okay."

He placed a folder on the table in front of her. This next bit was calculated as well, but seemed suddenly unnecessary. The Vitruvian Man with John's head was meant to have been another test to determine her true feelings toward him, but the significance of her response had faded to idle curiosity.

"I want you to calculate John’s ideal intake, and mine, to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening. Light-headed, good ..."

"Urinating in wardrobes, bad."

"Hmm."

*****  
The stag night had been something of a questionable success, mainly due to John having spiked their drinks throughout the evening. Sherlock still wasn't sure if it had been a calculated move, designed to have gotten them both so drunk that anything could have happened. Well, not anything-- something _very_ specific. The intimacy John had shown was wonderful. They could touch each other freely. He could put his arm around him. Still, all the while he knew this was only obtainable because John was thoroughly inebriated. It was wonderful and it was horrible.

He had a far better chance of having meaningless, drunken sex with John than he would having any sort of... romantic relationship with him. The type he could barely admit to himself he wanted. He'd spent most of his life proclaiming sentiment for the weak. And it was. It made him feel _terribly_ weak every time he thought about wanting any of it. Molly wanted plenty of sex, too. The next time she felt like she needed to display for him--as well as herself--that Tom was the superior choice, Sherlock should tell her that he truly was.

It was a shame 'sensual' went part and parcel with sexuality. Because that was what he _was_ \-- sensual. True exploration of his senses. When he smelled something, he took in huge inhalations of air. When he looked, it was at the very deepest level... able to catch the richness of detail that separated a forgery from the genuine article. No one would ever suspect the way he took in sound. It was if he could feel the pulsing of the sound waves themselves. His sense of taste was highly developed. He was frequently tasting chemicals... something that had driven Mummy crazy in his youth. But touch.... touch had been restricted to fabrics. Expensive things, of course. Cottons so refined they could be mistaken for silk. Purchasing the best clothing possible had originally been a practical move, to disguise himself and separate his current image from the man of not so long ago, who could be found in a doss house as often as not. If he looked respectable, he would be respected. But the clothes had sort of, grown on him. He knew when something was of a higher quality. And he enjoyed how that felt. He enjoyed that sense of softness, warmth, comfort, in physical touch as well... even back when it had been limited to touching fur. Pets were easier to show genuine affection to than people. And people wouldn't just let you... lean on them, like a dog would. Except maybe John-- when he was drunk enough.

He was glad to be interrupted by a case, although there was no hint of questionable success about that. It had been a total disaster.

****

It had been a while since he'd dosed up to this degree and, when it didn't take as expected, he figured he probably weighed quite a bit more now than then and had upped the amount just a bit. It was feeling more familiar then. Better. But coming down was difficult in and of itself, and the audience didn't help matters. 

John was easily distracted, by putting the focus back onto him, but Molly saw through it all at a glance and slapped him-- harder than he ever would have expected. Twice with her right hand, and-- presumably having caused herself some discomfort, but still feeling compelled to continue-- once with her left. It was the slap itself that cued him onto the fact that the engagement was off, long before he ever realized the lack of a ring cutting into his face.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?" Molly glanced at John, and Sherlock knew her well enough to be certain she was assessing just how much of a role he had played in his poor decision making. "And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you’re sorry."

Sherlock touched his face, feeling the heat spread across his cheek. "Sorry your engagement’s over-- though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring." _Retaliatory embarrassment is fair play, Molly Hooper._

"Stop it. Just stop it." Sherlock looked at her as if to say 'I will if you will.' Molly fell silent, but there was no need to say more.

_Besides... it's John's turn to berate me. What lovely **friends** I seem to have._

****

Molly having shown up at the flat had been completely unexpected. He was in front of the Bunsen burners, so engrossed in observing his chemical reactions that he didn't even notice the weight of feet on the stairs, the length of stride, the cadence with which they took the steps-- any identifiable information. He hadn't realised anyone had even been there at all until the knock, and it had startled him.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," she stated simply, still standing in the doorway. She'd rehearsed the words in an attempt to remain calm and steady. It would sound flat, almost insincere, to someone who didn't know her character. She closed her eyes. "Violence is not the right way to handle this type of thing."

"On the contrary, most would find it to be the correct approach when someone consistently throws their life away. I wasn't, however, doing that. Not exactly. Do come in."

She stepped inside and hesitated before siting on the sofa. "I heard," she replied. "For a case. But you-- If--" Molly stopped mid-sentence."Well, I came here to apologise, not to get into this again. So. There you are."

"You can say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever it is you were going to say but thought it wasn't your place to. You are my friend. It is your place."

"I was going to say if you can fake being dead, you could have faked being high." 

"You're right, of course."

Molly blinked. "Yes. So... why didn't you fake it?"

"Because I _wanted_ to get high. I--," Sherlock sat down and gestured for Molly to do so as well. "It clarifies my mind. Sharpens my focus, when my mind races. And I--"

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

"I've been doing it for years. I know what my limits are and it's perfectly safe, now that I--"

"No. Not that. I mean... that too... I wish you wouldn't do drugs, yes. But I meant I wish you wouldn't treat me like that. You weren't on a stimulant. You were on a Morphine derivative. Morphine derivatives don't clarify. They numb. I know what drugs do. I'm not h-- I'm not a physician, but I still have medical training enough to know when someone is trying to forget something." She hesitated just a bit. "Or someone."

Sherlock stared at her, eyes widening, and resolved, again, not to underestimate Molly Hooper.

"You always... well, everyone does. Jim did, too. Maybe it's just," her voice softened, "my type."

Sherlock ran a finger along the sofa, tracing the marks in the hide. Marks from the fat of the animal's body, not range marks. Some countries still used barbed wire. It left scars. "You know who I was forgetting-- he wasn't supposed to find me there, it was a spectacular failure-- but you don't know why I needed to forget." His hand stilled. "It's not what you think. Not exactly. Well, it _is_ what you think-- but there's more to it." He hesitated, and in the silence, Molly waited for him to say more, but he didn't resume his explanation.

"I've seen the way _he_ looks at _you_ , too-- when you're not looking. She is a replacement. You weren't there. He was lonely. He... picked someone similar, in some ways." She quirked the corner of her mouth and her cheeks flushed slightly. Sherlock politely glanced away, giving Molly time to quickly collect herself.

He was still turned away from her as he began to speak. "No, Molly. Before Mary. Even if he... wanted me... even if he finally admitted it to himself, it wouldn't work." He shifted to face her. "There was a time when I was fairly confident of his interest-- on some level-- and I stopped it from progressing in that direction. We would have wanted different things. It would have become... we would have tried to compromise, and perhaps it might have even worked for a while, but I wouldn't be able to give him what he ultimately needed. Now he is with someone who can provide that. Men generally need...," he gestured vaguely in the air, "a certain type of physically-based affection to--"

Molly snickered.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, I... I'm so sorry. I was just... that you would say it's a male thing. It's a female thing too, believe me."

"I didn't mean to imply that women had lesser amounts of sexual desire. That is a highly inaccurate misconception. I mean men who were raised in a family where--" he stopped and started again. "Okay, John. _John_ needs a certain type of physically-based affection to overcome inherent insecurities. To anchor him in the relationship. And I can't offer that. He will always feel like I don't truly _want_ him. Like he is a mere convenience to me. An accoutrement... like my coat, or that silly hat. Something that belongs _with_ me, instead of something I physically need. Because I really don't. Physically _need_. But, that doesn't mean I don't want him in my life. I just, don't... want... the way I'm expected to. The way other people do, anyway."

"Sexually," Molly replied hesitantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, _sexually_. And I'm perfectly healthy, please don't tell me to get a check for hormonal imbalance or... "

"Sherlock. I know you're fine. I'm... I'm fine too." Sherlock froze for a moment, blinking, processing, as Molly continued. "Jim offered me the perfect thing. He knew somehow. And I was so happy to have found someone who... but it was all fake."

"That's why you reacted so adamantly when I said he was gay. You really thought he wasn't. You really thought he just didn't care about... that sort of thing."

"I thought he wasn't. I thought he was just... different. That I finally found someone who would sit and watch Glee with me and maybe go to dinner." Molly swallowed. "Maybe cuddle a bit? And not want more. You don't have to be gay to not want sex with a woman. He could have just, not wanted sex. But of course only gay men seem to not want more from me, but, just-- he didn't _have_ to be gay this time." She tugged at her hair absentmindedly. "Oh, I don't know, he probably actually was, really. But when we were dating, he acted like me. So that's why I was so mad." She slapped her hands down on her legs. "Well! Who was I kidding, right?"

Sherlock looked embarrassed and shook his head. "Molly, you don't have to tell me..."

"But can I?"

"If it helps."

"Women are easier. But women try so hard to be free, not to be repressed, and they think I am. Repressed. I'm _not_ repressed. They just feel sad for me. But men, they turn into someone with something to prove. They turn into someone who has to... to fix you. But that wasn't Jim either." 

She shook her head and sighed. "It was all just so he could get close to me, in order to watch you. I can't even imagine it. Dating someone just so you can spy on someone else. It was still intimate. For me it was. Even if we didn't have sex. Anyway, I broke it off because I talked to him about it, and he was acting like someone who was lying about not being gay, and he even said that he never left you his number, and... and I didn't even _know_ he _had_ left you his number, and... well, that was that. I guess he wanted out anyway and didn't want it to seem too suspicious, so he made it so I'd be the one to break up with him. Clever people do things like that. 

"And then I decided to try it. The way normal people do. Lots of people used to say that you weren't supposed to like sex much anyway, right? Well, I guess you wouldn't ever be told something like that, but I was. That it is something to put up with, even though everyone I saw really wasn't just putting up with it. They were rather enjoying themselves. So I tried again, with Tom. Tom was the fix-you type. Sex isn't that bad. It's a bit like doing a chore you don't really like-- like doing the dishes. Just to keep the peace. It's not bad. It's a fair compromise."

Sherlock leaned forward. "Which made you feel even more broken." Molly slumped further back, as if wanting to disappear into the folds of the sofa. "Listen to me," he reached out and touched her shoulder. "I'm not saying that you are. I'm saying he made you feel that way. By trying to fix things that are no more than a natural variation."

"Maybe I wanted to fix things. I mean. Sometimes, I felt like I could just... it's just a body. I should be able to make it do what I want."

Sherlock nodded.

"And sometimes I can. And, sometimes I even want to, which makes it even more... weird. Well, it's a different type of 'want to', it's not a 'need to', and it's not a 'have to'. It's...a 'want to'. But. Not the way _he_ wanted to. And I thought I could have my reasons and he could have his and if it didn't match, it would still be fine. But. It wasn't fine. He," Molly looked panicked for a moment. She looked carefully at Sherlock, being sure to catch his eyes. "He's not a bad person. He didn't make me do anything. He didn't..." 

Sherlock returned her gaze. "Except it's hateful. So, when you were saying you and Tom were having quite a lot of sex-- I did think it was entirely manufactured for my benefit at first, but then you didn't seem deceptive... just, unnecessarily blunt. Making a statement."

 

"It _was_ a statement. I wanted you to know I was doing fine. Or whatever most people would think of as doing fine. What _I_ thought would be doing fine, even. I know how it's supposed to be. It... wasn't that bad, really. And he liked it. Liked me. And I liked what went along with it. I thought I could...I thought if I put in enough effort...well, not effort really. More like determination. I decided I could do whatever I damn well pleased-- and not let it shape my destiny-- and maybe I could find someone to just... be happy with. Maybe I'd find a way to make it work. It wasn't ideal, but, it could be good enough. Otherwise it's just... me and Toby, you know?"

"Yes. I do."

She stopped and looked as if she were weighing whether or not to continue. "Look at me. Like you can do. I mean... really _look_."

Sherlock seemed to have a hard time doing so. For what may have been the first time ever, when his eyes met hers he wanted to turn away. He saw her father's death-- while she was still a pre-teen. Saw her obsession with all things morbid. Saw her keen mind. Saw those all combine, morph into her determination for learning as much as possible about forensic pathology. He saw her rebellion against her mother's platitudes and well-meaning drivel. Saw her rebellion against expectations, and her struggles against that very rebellion.

"Do you see anything wrong? I mean... I... I spent so much time trying to see if there was anything there. Any reason for it. And I always came up empty. _Always_. And I don't know if I can't see it or if it... just doesn't exist. So, if you see something that I can't... could you please tell me?" She dropped her chin to her chest and focused on her breathing, waiting.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with what I see. We all want reasons. Sometimes there are none. And sometimes they are there, but it no longer matters. We are where we are." He felt his breathing matching pace with hers. Slow, steady, even. "Do you realise I've felt more at ease in your presence than I've ever been at any other time? That my mind usually races in circles when I'm not working, spins itself out of control, but right now, I feel completely... calm? I... do you like kissing, Molly Hooper?"

Molly raised her head and slowly smiled. "It's not all that high on my list, to be honest, but it is on there."

"I'd say it depends on the type of kissing, yes? Some a no, some a let's see? What about two and a half seconds duration, right," he brought his fingertip just above her eyebrow, and touched her face with the lightest of pressure, "here?"

Her eyes closed the same pace as the motion of his finger, then opened again as he removed it. "Yes. Yes, that would be considerably higher on the list." She grinned. He pressed his lips gently to her forehead.

"I'm sorry, Molly, the cuddling is perfectly acceptable, but, watching Glee simply isn't an option for me."

"When it's on, I'll bring you some extra toes to keep you busy. Compromise."

"Yes. Compromise."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to add a second part to this storyline to bring it up to date ;)
> 
> This fic does refer to the deleted Magnussen hospital scene, which is here (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=b5Lj7qj_-vo) My apologies to anyone who is watching it for the first time due to this fic...it is...creepy and frightening as hell IMO, so, you know, be warned.

"I need you to know." He looked at Molly quickly, and then dropped his gaze. "I'm... getting engaged. Obviously it's not _real_... but--"

Molly's brow furrowed in confusion, and then she smiled brightly. "Oh. No, no that's okay. Is it, like, the suspect bakes wedding cakes or does floral arrangements, or something? Do you need my help?" Sherlock looked up slowly and seemed almost about to speak when Molly simply continued, correcting herself. "No, no, you said you are _getting engaged_ \-- so you already have someone lined up, then. Who are you working with on this one? It isn't Sally, is it?" Molly chuckled. "Not that she wouldn't be professional, but... it would be kind of funny, wouldn't it?"

"No. It's not that type of situation. I've been...I've actually been seeing her for the past few weeks... informally. Nothing too serious." Molly's happiness morphed into anger, and then disappointment. "I can't even stress enough how very important it is, Molly. I need to get close enough to her to get some crucial information. But I want you to know...it is not indicative of a real, emotional relationship."

"You are dating someone. Right now. For a case?"

"You may even recall Janine-- from the wedding. Maid-of-Honor?"

"And you are dating her. But just to get information?"

"Of course. Would there be any other reason to do so?"

"And you intend to lead this poor girl on, far enough that you actually propose to her, and... then what?"

"That part is fairly straightforward. Shortly thereafter, it will become readily apparent I was only dating her to get information. She will see that, and break it off. She will... hate my guts... for an undetermined amount of time. Too many variables to predict just how long. Past heartbreaks, others possibly waiting in the wings..."

Molly stared at him. "Why engaged? Why not just, date. A bit."

"Simply put, I need her to permit me access to her workplace. In a few days, I intend to bump the relationship up a bit, and surprise her with this..." He rose, crossed to the mantlepiece and lifted up a small box, then flashed a grin and put it back down again. It faded quickly as she schooled her features into something far harder than he had expected. "You're angry. Why would you be angry? I told you so you wouldn't be surprised. So you would know it wasn't sincere. But your--"

"I appreciate that," she said, curtly. "And would you like any pointers on how to make her break it off with you? Being as I have experience in being dumped by a... conniving mastermind? Not that you'd need pointers. I'm sure you have it mapped out." She looked up at him and smiled weakly. "Just. Don't sleep with her, okay? I mean, it's one thing to lead someone on, but..." She stopped as his expression was easily read. "Oh God. You already did."

"I couldn't keep the relationship going without any sort of more intimate--"

"And now you are about to tell me you felt you needed _that_ for it to be a _real_ relationship?"

"No! You know I didn't want _that._ But you know as well as I that _she_ did. That she would expect it." He ran his fingers through his hair and scrunched his hand into a fist at the top of his crown. "It is nearly over, Molly. It is drawing to a conclusion. And I will have enough information to... well, to put the most repulsive man in London away for good and to help a woman turn her life around. Two women, actually, and countless others I don't know personally. Surely that's worth a-- I'm the one losing here. She wanted to sleep with me when we first met. Believe me when I say she isn't going to be crying in her tea. She gets a decent enough ring, a story the press will be banging down her door to get, her rather despicable boss will be well on the way to being locked up for good. All in exchange for having to put up with some rather one-sided physical pleasure on her part that won't even have her concerned about potential pregnancy. And I'm taking advantage somehow?" 

Molly's frown only deepened, and Sherlock paced the length of the room, uncertain what to say next. He hadn't expected Molly to think of this as a bit of fun. Hadn't thought John would think of his time off the grid in that same manner either... and yet...

"I'm really messing up quite a bit, aren't I?" she said. "I'm painting you with the same brush as so many other men. I'm forgetting that this isn't something you ever wanted. That it wasn't some sort of conquest. For all the people who have treated me like I was playing some kind of game at being hard to get, read everything wrong when I really wasn't interested, you'd think I wouldn't turn around and do the same sort of thing to you. Just because you're a man."

Sherlock turned and smiled, relieved. That had been... quick. No drawn out misunderstandings. No dancing around each other's feelings in an attempt to second guess. Simple, direct communication. He sat down next to her on the sofa. "Women generally think I'm homosexual and just won't admit it-- and as a result my poor repressed self is just not wanting anything whatsoever. It's easy enough to play into that preconception, to get out of things before it ever goes anywhere. If it's a woman, I'll casually mention something especially stereotypical of gay men. It's not entirely inaccurate, you see. I can appreciate the male form. I just, leave out that I can appreciate the female form as well. Aesthetically, of course. If it's a man, and I ...need out... I'll suddenly become quite religiously devout. This time around though, I have had to keep up pretense far longer than ever before. I would assume you have to contend with a different set of preconceived notions as an asexual woman. Closeted lesbian? Sexual abuse survivor?"

"Hah! No. The women I've dated question me just as much as the men-- kind of takes the 'closeted lesbian' bit out of the mix when we are both women-- and the men don't seem to think about that, though you'd think they would, huh? I also get men who think I just have some problem with _them._ Taps into their insecurities, I guess. And, yeah, I do get the abuse thing a lot. Enough to have made me really think about it."

"Statistically common enough, at any rate. But also far from mutually exclusive."

"But anyway... sorry. Again."

"No need for that."

Molly was triumphant. "Bet she doesn't cuddle as well as I do."

"You'd win that bet. She doesn't cuddle at all."

"What? She doesn't?"

"It ceases to remain 'cuddling' when that's not the goal in-and-of itself. It transforms into," he grimaced, "something closer to preliminary foreplay."

She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, and he gently stroked her hair. The callouses of his fingertips impeded sensation, but it felt soft and smooth against the length of his fingers.

*****  
When Sherlock woke, John was there. 

"Yes, Mary is here. Molly too." Had he asked about them? He didn't even know. "I-- Sherlock, I swear, if we find out who did this I will--" John switched gears abruptly to let him know the details of his condition. "Missed your heart by centimeters, most damage is to your liver, which is an unbelievably lucky thing. Specialist said if you pulled through the surgery, your chances at a full recovery would be very good, given time, and...well, here you are, thank God." 

Sherlock managed a weak smile. The tubing was uncomfortable; his voice seemed to be completely inaccessible now, though he could only assume he had said something about Mary when he had first awoken. Best not to say anything at all now in any case, until he had the time to sort things out properly. He remembered most of the events of the previous night, but only in bits and pieces. And John was, fortunately, all too eager to talk at the moment.

"They said...they told me later they didn't think you'd make it. Said they actually even lost you for a bit, there. But I knew you'd-- _fuck, no, Sherlock I didn't know fucking anything_. I'm just-- I tried to find out what Magnussen might have seen, but... well, he isn't saying anything. I think whoever it was might have knocked him out too... like the bodyguard and Janine. Which reminds me... she's here too. Well, she _was_ here. She said she'd come back later. You should see what she told the press!" John waved today's paper in his hand. "Anyway, I'll be back in a bit. I want to tell the doctor you are awake and they will want to check your vitals again." John shook his head and smiled broadly. "It isn't over yet, but we are through the worst of it. Molly will be right up. Just... rest, okay?"

John left, and the medical staff returned, checking over everything possible. Then another visitor-- a blurred figure who stepped closer to come into focus. Mary.

"Don't tell John, Sherlock. Right now you can't string together more than a few words, but, when you can... don't say anything. We will have much more to discuss, you and I. Get some rest."

Sherlock tried to think about the reasons behind Mary's actions. Why she would refuse his help and turn against him. He fell back out of consciousness again, vaguely aware of the door clicking shut. He had no sense of time, and in the haze of morphine, he didn't know if the door click he heard was someone leaving or someone coming in. It was someone coming in. But not another doctor. Or Molly. Or John.

"They're not all from me," he began, in a deliberate, strongly-accented voice.

****

Sherlock tried his best to be alert for the conversation with Janine, but he really would rather have had time to sit and think. The sequence of events was becoming much clearer now, but he needed to develop a plan for the future. How to bring Magnussen down and save John and Mary from his mechanizations. John needed to know what Mary had done, yes, but it needed to be from her own lips, or it wouldn't be believed. Not at this point in time. Then, with that issue dealt with, he would be free to think of how to best help them. The three of them. 

Janine was simply no longer of consequence, though it surprised him that he did still continue to wish her well. He had anticipated she would come out of this just fine and go her own way in a huff of justifiable anger, but, she seemed to really have liked him. And that was... surprising. Could have been friends if he hadn't lied to her. Well, of course he couldn't have been truthful! Why did everyone seem to think it was so easy to plan these things out and still be truthful? Far easier to say what needed to be said and get everything accomplished efficiently. And maybe afterward, you could have the luxury of explanations. Like when he had questioned the headmistress about the kidnapping. Wait all day for her to get to the point? Or frighten her a bit, get the information he needed, and have her breathe into a paper bag afterward? Janine didn't even seem to require the equivalent of a paper bag.

They joked a bit. She was still being far too nice, and he was suddenly struck by the simple fact that he couldn't 'play up the gay' now-- not after they were already intimate-- so he tried the religious angle instead. Waiting until we got married. When she said she knew that wasn't going happen, he was left to wonder if she had some unrevealed purpose in staying with him-- perhaps even equal to his for staying with her. Underestimating women was beginning to be an annoyingly common theme in his life. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe they could have been friends if he had confided in her rather than ruined her career and risked her life. Once Magnussen was gone, it would have all been worth the collateral damage. But she had come through with enough money to buy a cottage in Sussex. And he was glad for it. She left the room, feeling she was the better person, which she undoubtedly was. It didn't matter. He just needed to think.

Sherlock turned the morphine drip back down, hoping the lack of haze would keep his mind clear and the spikes in pain would keep him awake. He knew what he needed to do-- once he was healthy enough, that is. But some of it just couldn't wait that long. He would have to patch some things up between John and Mary first, because, friend or foe, forgiven or not, John leaving her right now would not be wise. Then, he could move on to Magnussen. He took out Moriarty's entire network; he could take down a single man. Look at the Appledore files. There will be something damaging concealed there. Of that he was certain. 

The pain was great, but his exhaustion was greater. He finally succumbed to sleep.

 

****

 

When he awoke in the morning, Molly was beside him, eyes bright with no trace of tears. "I hear you are doing very well. And that none of the nurses hate you."

"That's the greater miracle here. Not my survival." 

"Did you get what you needed out of," she paused, looked for the right word, and gave up, "all this... _before_ you were shot, Shagalot Holmes?"

Sherlock's face dropped and his voice registered just above a hoarse whisper. "The articles... none of it is true, Molly. I didn't do any of the--"

"You mean you didn't make her wear the hat that you absolutely despise? Really?" Molly laughed and Sherlock was so overjoyed to not have inadvertently ruined everything that he joined in as well-- before realising just how much it hurt to do so. Molly managed to reign her laughter in long enough to ask again. "I know it's not real. None of it. But... did you get everything you went through it all for?"

He frowned. "No. I will need to go back. Some of it can wait until I am fully recovered, but some of it can't."

"Back again? I sometimes wonder if you have _any limits_? I mean, things you won't do-- just to solve a case?"

He raised his eyebrows, his eyes moving side to side in genuine thought, and shook his head slightly. "Well, so far... no. And to bring down Magnussen--"

"Magnussen? The newspaper man?"

"One and the same. I can't think of anything I wouldn't do to remove him from society for good."

"Is he a murderer, then?" Molly seemed completely at ease accepting that the wealthy mogul might very well be one.

"Not directly, no. Blackmail is his specialty. He craves power. He would rather enjoy watching a man kill himself out of desperation than be the one to pull the trigger. It is more lucrative. And more entertaining. He enjoys watching people struggle against him. I've never met a person who enjoys it more. Who thrives on... ownership."

"Sounds awfully personal. His style _and_ your motivation."

He hesitated. "It is both awful and personal, yes. Nothing to burden you with, however. Suffice it to say, I have several compelling reasons to want to see the man incarcerated."

"But, that doesn't make sense?"

Nothing seemed to get past Molly Hooper. It was the most infuriating positive trait he could think of. "What doesn't make sense? And who's to say everything has to make sense?"

She smiled softly. "It doesn't have to, but it usually does." 

Subtle shifts in voice and posture, no doubt. He was still trying to route his brain around that hospital visit. How it felt when Magnussen had taken his hand. How very _close_ he was. He had tried desperately to project defiance-- for someone like Magnussen, showing fear was merely a form of encouragement-- but in the end, it was all too obvious just how frightened he truly had been. Some of it must still be there, lingering in his psyche, to be easily observed by someone with a talent for reading people. Fortunately, there weren't too many people like that around. 

"He can't control you. He's got nothing on you that would matter. I mean, I read that whole thing in the paper years ago. If there was anything worth exploiting, it would have come out then. I..." She was going to apologize again since it sounded so terrible, being so blunt about the tell-all, but seemed to think better of it and just swallowed instead.

Sherlock smoothed his hospital gown. "He sets up people like dominoes, knowing just who to push to start a chain reaction. Who is important to important people. I'm in the chain. And as for the rest, I suppose he just took a special interest in me." He forced a disarming grin. "Just lucky, I guess." _Because he's never had a detective before._ The words were ominous enough _before_ they were infused with innuendo. He shook his head slightly to chase the memory out.

"He threatened you. You're pushing it out of your head, but he threatened you."

"Fine, yes, yes he threatened me. He threatens everyone. It's what blackmailers do."

"I'm not letting you drop it. You want to, and I'm not going to just-- See? This is why I sometimes think I'm better off not being in relationships. Because I don't seem to let people deal with things in their own way. I get this sort of pushing thing in my head, and then I try to convince people to talk when they really don't want to. You don't have to, you know. Talk about it."

"It's not as if I couldn't. It's just irrelevant."

"Except you didn't delete it."

"What?"

"Well, you delete things that are irrelevant. Like the solar system, you had said. Well, _John_ said you said." She smiled weakly. "But you didn't do it with this... so the threat is still very real."

Sherlock shifted position slowly, awkwardly, but then seemed to relax slightly. "I was serving as Lady Smallwood's agent to secure the return of some compromising letters her husband had written to an underage romantic interest many years ago. Magnussen was pressuring her for political favours, but she remained resolute. He threatened to publish the letters, which was to be expected, and then he... licked her."

"Licked? Licked... her... where?" Molly blushed at how ridiculous the question sounded, and how she hoped it didn't sound as dirty as she thought, but she just couldn't imagine someone just... licking a person. "I mean... he just... licked her? Like her arm, or her hand instead of kissing it... or--"

"He licked the side of her face. She hadn't intended to mention it at first, but the reapplied facial powder and the dampened area where it had clumped together ever so slightly in a stripe... well... I simply looked at that part of her face, and she decided to disclose it, in spite of her embarrassment." Had he been a kinder man, he would have told her she had nothing to be embarrassed about-- that men like Magnussen were simply predators. He wasn't kind, though. Or maybe that _was_ kind, not discussing the matter further. Maybe Molly was right, and she wasn't exactly kind either. It made him feel closer to her, somehow. 

"She shouldn't have felt embarrassed." It was a simple sentence, with great weight behind it. Sherlock felt every nuance.

"I know that," Sherlock snapped. His silence seemed to carry an equal amount. Eventually, he felt as if it didn't matter whether he spoke or not-- he would be saying the same thing. "When a man who licks people threatens you, Molly, what form do you think it would likely take? Use your imagination. Now's not the time to be dull."

She looked doubtful. "Was it just words? And when was this?"

"He came to visit yesterday." Molly was clearly angry she wasn't made aware of it before now, but, well, he had been resting yesterday. By the time she came back to her bedside vigil, he was asleep. She seemed to relax slightly. He could read it on her face. A public place. Relatively public. If only she knew how much could be done in public. That was not a burden he wished to place on her. On them. 

He'd slipped away during some of it. The morphine. He remembered him saying he had coveted his hands. _A musician's hands. An artist's hands. A woman's hands_. Close...too, too close. And then, suddenly, he was eating dinner-- with Magnussen seated opposite him-- in an Italian restaurant. He didn't recall when he had been there before, but he knew the setting had been pulled from some distant memory. The reality was wearing away in patches, as he remained seated in his hospital gown, still attached to the IV drip, a plate of Pasta Puttanesca in front of him. Whore's pasta. And Magnussen wanted things from him. Reached over and took his food from his plate. Licked the hollow of an olive with his tongue. Rinsed his fingers in his water glass.

Sherlock gestured towards her and Molly pushed her chair closer to his bed. "I have a plan. If it goes well, I will destroy him. If not, I will likely be arrested for high treason. I will be attending a family get-together. It will probably be quite close to Christmas. John and Mary will be there as well. I need to be close to John during this time; our dominoes are aligned. And... I will need you to avoid me. No calls, no texts, no contact at all for that month. It's all I can do to keep you safe." She nodded. "Thank you, Molly. For trusting me."

"Anything you need."

"If things go awry, if I am arrested, I'm certain no prison can hold me. Someone will inevitably make a mistake, and I will capitalize on it. Mycroft will pick up the pieces as usual, and I will receive some sort of pardon. I don't want to dwell on it until then. Until December. But know this. I'll miss you, Molly Hooper. I will miss your ability to cut to the heart of the issue, to be able to speak my mind with you. I will miss you terribly, but I will know you are safe and that you won't ever give up on me. And that is all I will need to keep moving forward. Now... what else did they say about that infernal hat?"

****

The reporter didn't say who the suspect was-- only that Charles Augustus Magnussen, creator of a vast print media empire, was killed at his home during a break-in. Molly knew what had happened. She had learned to listen to the things that weren't said. 

The encrypted email program had remained on her laptop ever since Sherlock's disappearance years ago when he had hidden in her home before heading out of the country. She typed in her access code and began a letter to a man she knew only as 'SJ'. She would stay away, per Sherlock's request, but that didn't mean she would stay uninvolved. If he had meant that, he should have said so.

SJ had been the one who had dug through countless video clips and interviews to unearth incontestable proof that actor Richard Brook never existed and the videos featuring him were doctored. Sherlock had liked him. Trusted him-- even though most of his work, both on his own and through Anonymous, was of dubious legality. Sherlock said SJ did it for the art of it. Another puzzle solver, with an overdramatic sense of style. As It turned out, that was exactly what she needed: to get everyone's attention and send Sherlock back home they would have to go big.

Every screen in the country, guaranteed. What he said would hardly matter, it was all about the visual image, but when the email came back asking for any audio requests, Molly knew precisely what she wanted Sherlock to hear.

She smiled, and typed **Make him say, "Did you miss me?"**

**Author's Note:**

> This story is gifted to Anarfea, who has not only introduced my Johnlocking self to the world of the multishipper, but who has become my friend in the process. Thank you.
> 
> I never thought I'd be writing this. That sounds terrible, doesn't it? To say you never thought you'd be writing something. I started this fic based on a bit of pique which turned to righteous indignation. Far too many have claimed that "het" fics are, in and of themselves, homophobic. Well, that whole idea just doesn't sit well with me. Nor would it sit well with countless people who are not straight, but are in relationships that appear to be so from the outside for numerous reasons (We all know it is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data.).
> 
> In writing, I discovered a few things about me as well. Namely, that I had been avoiding poor Molly...and that we have more in common than I cared to admit. These are not unrelated facts. Writing continues to be a learning process for me. I also realised I have yet to read any asexual/asexual fic. Ever. I have theories on why this is the case, but I leave those to future discussion in comments. As those of you who have read my other writing know...I love to discuss things there-- whether the reader loves what I did, or thinks it is seriously lacking. Feel free to talk with me.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my beta Nightsky...who continues to provide me with the final proof(reading).  
> Thank you to Ariane DeVere, whose transcripts allowed me to slip this into canon as seamlessly as possible.


End file.
